by Nancy Revell
‘God, Glor, what’s that expression – “Do as I say and not as I do”?’
They both laughed, thinking of how Gloria had worked the cranes during the later stages of her pregnancy when she could barely haul herself in and out of the metal cabin.
As they walked up the embankment to the main gates, Polly lowered her voice. ‘Anyway, how are you feeling about everything? I have to say, you seem so much happier now Vinnie’s off the scene.’ Polly hadn’t been the only one to notice the difference in her workmate – all of the women had commented at some point over the past few weeks that Gloria seemed so much more relaxed of late.
‘I am,’ Gloria admitted. ‘I honestly feel like I’ve had a weight taken off. And it really is all down to Peter for managing to get shot of Vinnie. Jack didn’t say anything, but I knew he was just waiting for the chance to give Vinnie what for.’
As they squashed through the bottleneck at the entrance to the yard, they reached out to take their white boards from Alfie. They no longer had to shout out their own personal identification numbers as the young lad knew them by sight.
‘And how’s Jack?’ Polly always asked about Jack, not just because of his importance in Gloria’s life, but because she and the rest of the women genuinely cared about him. He had been good as their boss, and he’d kept shtum about what he had seen that night Rosie had been attacked by her uncle.
‘Yes, he’s good,’ Gloria said, ‘and he’s remembering so much more. It’s really helped him seeing so much of Arthur.’
Polly smiled at the mention of the old man, who was now meeting with Jack almost every day and enjoying a bacon bap and a mug of tea at the café just up from the docks.
‘I think Arthur’s really enjoying it too. I reckon he could spend just about every waking hour reminiscing about the old days. He still misses working on the river and I know there’s not a day goes by when he doesn’t miss Flo.’
As they made their way across the yard, Gloria let out a sigh. ‘But unfortunately, it’s not all sweetness and light. There’s still one great big looming cloud on the horizon.’
Knowing what Gloria was going to say next, Polly asked, ‘You gonna do it soon?’
Gloria nodded. ‘Yes, I think the time’s come for us to come clean with Miriam. And Helen.’
Polly could hear the guilt in her friend’s voice and squeezed her arm as they arrived at their work area to find Rosie, Dorothy, Angie and Martha trying to keep warm around the five-gallon barrel fire. Hannah was just leaving.
‘See you at lunch!’ she shouted out as she hurried back to the drawing office.
‘Morning!’ The women’s greetings were emitted along with a long trail of icy vapour. There was just enough time to drink half a cup of tea from their flasks before the hooter sounded out and they all trooped off to the SS Brutus.
Just before lunch, Rosie stopped working and pulled up her welding mask. The women followed suit, and as they did so they saw movement down by the quayside.
‘Fancy seeing Doxford’s latest launch?’ she asked, nodding her head in the direction of the river.
The women didn’t need asking twice. Switching off their machines, they pulled off their leather gloves and followed Rosie as she led the way. Like most others along the river, there was an unspoken law that allowed workers to down tools for a few minutes to watch any newly launched ship head out to do her trials along the north-east coast.
‘She’s lovely,’ Angie gawped as the bow of the ship, flanked by two tugs, came into view.
Like in some monster-sized fashion show, the huge metal lady majestically glided her way down the watery catwalk that was the River Wear. Spectators lining the riverbanks cheered and clapped as they eyed up the town’s latest creation.
Gloria looked at Angie and Dorothy. The pair of them had their arms linked as they scrutinised the 400-foot-long beauty shimmering her way through the sparkling, white-tipped waters of the Wear. She could hear the other workers around them comment on the ship’s lines and the quality of her finish, weighing her up just as critically as racing men looking over the points of a horse and making their judgements accordingly.
Breathing in the salt air, Gloria looked at the women welders. Her heart went out to Rosie. None of the women had said anything, but Rosie looked terrible. She had dark rings under her eyes, and was clearly not sleeping. The poor girl was one of the bravest, strongest women Gloria knew, and also one of the unluckiest in life and love.
Gloria’s eyes wandered across to Crown’s, where she knew Jack would be now, standing, like they all were, watching the ship being guided out of the mouth of the Wear. She loved that man so much. Sometimes she thought too much. If, like Peter, he had to suddenly go away, she didn’t know how she could cope. Would she, like Rosie, be able to put on a brave face and carry on? She wasn’t so sure.
Looking at her friends and feeling that wonderful sense of belonging she had only ever felt since starting work at Thompson’s, Gloria suddenly felt sad. She knew this would all soon be taken from her, or rather that she would be taken from them, as there was no doubt in her mind that as soon as Jack told Miriam about their love – and about Hope – her first act of retribution would be to have Gloria booted out of the yard.
It was the price she had to pay. Miriam, she knew, would make it hard for them to gain employment and it was likely they were going to find it hard to survive financially, but that didn’t matter. At least she and Jack and Hope could finally be together. As long as they had each other – and Hope had her mam and dad to love and care for her – nothing else mattered.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Pickering & Sons, Bridge Street, Sunderland
When Georgina heard Mrs Crawford greeting her father in the room next door, she felt herself panic a little. Last night she had seen the head welder, Rosie Thornton, in the flesh and it was then that the faint jingle of a bell in the distant recesses of her memory had started clanging. The memory had caused her pain, but then again, any kind of reminiscence about her mother always did.
Rosie’s mum and her own mum had been friends.
Georgina could vividly recall her mother’s smiling face and the trail of her lavender perfume as she left the house to have what she called ‘her tea and chatter’ with her friend, Mrs Thornton.
She had dredged her childhood memories and recalled that Mrs Thornton and her family had lived over the river in Whitburn village, and it was only when she came into town every month that she met with Georgina’s mother.
Georgina had met Rosie only the once, and very briefly, when Mrs Thornton had knocked on their door and apologised to her mother for having to call off their usual monthly get-together. She remembered hiding behind the folds of her mother’s long skirt and peeking a look at the woman and child on their doorstep. The little blonde girl had smiled back at Georgina, and she remembered thinking how pretty she was.
She had recognised Rosie straight away last night. The pretty little girl had developed into a stunning woman, despite the facial scarring, which she had managed to hide well, but not so well that it was indiscernible.
Strictly speaking, Georgina should hand everything she had learnt about the women welders, including what she now knew about Rosie, over to the client. After all, that was her job, it was what she was paid for.
For heaven’s sake, Georgina huffed to herself. Why should it matter that their mothers had been friends?
‘Good day, Mr Pickering, how are you?’ Miriam sounded the epitome of politeness. She even surprised herself sometimes as to how nice she could actually be – how easy it was to win people over. ‘And how’s that lovely young lady who works for you?’ Miriam looked around the room as if expecting to come across Georgina lurking in a corner.
‘She’s very well, thank you,’ Mr Pickering said. ‘In fact, let me just go and see if “the lovely young lady” has all the information you required.’
Georgina heard her father’s chair scrape back on the bare floorboards and she start
ed scrabbling to put her various bits of paper into order. When he opened the door, she looked up and smiled, trying to keep the indecision from showing on her face.
‘I’ll bring you the file in two minutes,’ she said, causing her father to do an about-turn back to his own office.
Miriam counted out the money she owed Mr Pickering. She was paying cash as there was no way she wanted anyone to have even an inkling that she had visited such a shady establishment – never mind employed the services of a private investigator.
As promised, two minutes later Georgina entered the room with her file and handed it over to Mrs Crawford. It was the first time Georgina had really looked at Miriam and she couldn’t help but be a little intimidated. The woman was stunning. For her age, at least.
‘Here you are,’ she said, feeling a ridiculous urge to drop in a curtsy.
‘Thank you, my dear.’ Miriam gave the young girl a convincing, kindly smile.
In truth, Miriam didn’t think the doleful-looking girl with the sad eyes at all ‘lovely’, and she certainly wasn’t like any of the secretaries Miriam had ever met.
When Georgina left the room and went back to her own small office, she flopped back down on her chair behind the square little wooden desk.
She just hoped that she had made the right decision.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Wednesday 7 January 1942
Rosie looked at her little alarm clock and forced herself to get out of bed.
Even though she had barely slept a wink, she wasn’t tired, or perhaps she was, but just didn’t know it. All she did know was that it felt as though she had been stripped of all human emotion, as if physically she was alive and functioning, but her heart had turned to stone.
Four days ago, when she had walked out of the railway station after seeing Peter’s train leave, it was as if she had stepped into some kind of emotional void. Nothing seemed to matter any more. And the same thoughts kept going round and round in her head.
She should have listened to George.
God, she should have been proud of Peter – not shouted at him and then run away!
Now she had not only lost the man she loved, but because of her own bloody-mindedness she had missed the chance to say a final farewell to him. She would give anything to rewind the clock, to have clicked open the gate that night and gone to Peter for what might have been the last time.
She kept replaying the fantasy in her mind. How she would have told him that she loved him, how she understood that the war took precedence over their love, but that theirs was a special love, one that no one – not even this war, or even death – would be able to take away from them.
But it didn’t matter how many times she imagined that scene, it didn’t make it real. If anything, it just made her feel more wretched, more heartbroken, and even angrier at herself. Now she just wanted to curl up in a ball and shut out the world and everyone in it, but she knew she couldn’t. People depended on her. Charlotte, her women welders, Lily and the girls. And there were ships to be built – a war to be won.
She had to do what she had always done in her life. She had to keep going.
And so, like she did every morning, Rosie put on her overalls, laced up her boots and pulled on her heavy winter coat. She then grabbed her holdall and gas mask, and opened the door to another day.
Another day of work. Another day to claw her way through.
‘Look!’ Angie said, her mouth crammed full of corned beef and potato pie. Her arm was stretched across the table and pointing towards the canteen window. The women all turned to see what had caught their workmate’s attention.
‘Oh dear,’ Martha said ominously.
‘What is it?’ Hannah asked. Her eyesight wasn’t the best and her view was obscured by Martha next to her.
‘It’s the telegram boy,’ Dorothy said, her eyes scrutinising the young lad dressed in the familiar navy-blue uniform. They had become known as ‘Angels of Death’ as so many messages they now delivered were to inform families that a loved one had been killed in action.
A few of the men on the neighbouring tables had also seen the telegram boy disappear into the administration office and a low murmur started to slowly snake its way around the canteen. The women all looked at Polly, who they knew would be thinking about Tommy, and Gloria, whose two boys were also serving in the navy.
‘Come on, you lot.’ Rosie broke the grim silence. ‘Eat up. We’ve got a hell of a lot to do this afternoon. I don’t want you fading on me saying you’re knackered and you’ve no energy left.’
The women looked back at their food and did as they were told.
Five minutes later, when Gloria, Polly and most of the other men and women in the canteen who had family away at war were just starting to breathe a sigh of relief that the telegram was not for them, Helen’s secretary came through the main doors. The noise and chatter of the canteen instantly died down as Marie-Anne made her way across the canteen. Dozens of pairs of eyes watched to see if Helen’s red-haired assistant was headed for their table.
‘She’s coming over here.’ Polly’s voice sounded faint and full of fear.
None of the rest of the women said anything as Marie-Anne made a beeline for their table. In all the time the women had worked there, they had never seen her in the canteen. Rosie took hold of Polly’s hand. The telegram might well come to Thompson’s rather than the Elliots’ because of Tommy’s close connection to the yard. On top of which Tommy had started to send his letters care of Thompson’s to see if Polly got them any quicker.
When Marie-Anne reached the table, she looked flushed. Her arrival had caused a stir and the attention was clearly unwelcome.
Rosie, Martha, Hannah, Dorothy and Angie stared hopelessly from Polly to Gloria, then up to a self-conscious-looking Marie-Anne.
‘Sorry to intrude on your lunch, ladies.’ Marie-Anne was the epitome of politeness but her voice was warm and friendly. ‘But,’ she turned her attention to Rosie, ‘a telegram has arrived for you, Miss Thornton, and Harold has asked to see you.’
Rosie looked shocked, as did all the women. She looked at Marie-Anne and seemed to be about to say something, but didn’t. Instead, she stood up, her legs shaky, and turned to Gloria.
‘Can you take charge while I’m gone?’
Her request was met by a mute nod from the squad’s mother hen.
None of the women spoke a word as Rosie followed Marie-Anne across the dinner hall and out of the doors of the canteen.
There was only one thought going through Rosie’s head as she walked across the yard and into the administration building.
Charlotte.
The telegram had to be something to do with her little sister.
Please, God, let her be all right! Rosie begged silently.
As she hurried up the two flights of stairs, she could feel her heart pounding. Marie-Anne knocked on Harold’s office door and waited for his gruff ‘Come in!’ before she opened it and stepped aside to let Rosie through.
Rosie heard the door close behind her and immediately felt caged in. She hated being in these offices.
‘Ah, Rosie,’ Harold said, waving his hand at the chair in front of his large steel desk. He had a cigar on the go and the air was thick with a sweet, oaky aroma. ‘Sit down, my dear. Sit down.’ He again proffered her the chair with his outstretched hand.
‘I’d rather stand, Harold,’ Rosie said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked. Her voice was strained.
‘Yes, my dear. Everything’s fine. Or should I say, no one’s been hurt. Or worse still, killed! Bloody telegrams – only seem to mean one thing these days.’
Rosie put both her hands on the back of the chair. All of a sudden, she felt zapped of energy.
‘Charlotte’s all right?’ she asked, needing to hear a more definite confirmation.
‘Charlotte?’ Harold asked, confused.
‘My sister, Charlotte,’ Rosie explained, searching
Harold’s face for a hint of what this was all about.
Harold’s face lightened.
‘No, this is nothing to do with family. Worry not!’ He put on his spectacles, reached for the telegram on his desk and handed it over to Rosie. ‘Here you are!’
Rosie stepped forward and took the small, slightly crumpled piece of yellow paper.
‘From a “Detective Sergeant Peter Miller”,’ Harold said with a curious look on his face. ‘Looks like you’re needed down south?’ His voice rose at the end, showing he was both perplexed and curious.
Rosie stared at Harold as though unable to understand what he was saying, before looking down at the words, all typed in capital letters. As she started to read, she suddenly felt breathless and sat down on the proffered chair, all the while her eyes remaining glued to the telegram.
She skim-read it once.
Then read it again, more slowly.
POST OFFICE
TELEGRAM
MISS ROSIE THORNTON THOMPSON’S SHIPYARD NORTH SANDS SUNDERLAND =
RAIL WARRANT ISSUED SUNDERLAND TO GUILDFORD. LEAVES 1500HRS 7 JANUARY. WILL AWAIT YOUR ARRIVAL = DETECTIVE SERGEANT PETER MILLER
Peter had watched helplessly from the window of the end carriage as the train had left the railway station that afternoon. He had not been able to take his eyes off the steps leading down to the platform – had not been able to give up hope that Rosie would come to see him off. He had got on the train at the very last moment and hurried along each carriage, looking out of every window, keeping his eyes trained on the stairs. He had reached the end compartment and had pulled down the sash window. His vision had been obscured by the steam rising from the tracks, but he just couldn’t give up. And then, just as the train started to squeal its way out of the station, he had caught a glimpse of Rosie just as she’d arrived on the platform. His heart soared as high as the clouds and then dropped to the depths of despair in the space of a breath.
